‘You are old men,’ someone sneered. ‘You cannot tell us what to do.’
The speaker was Nuport, his cronies at his heels. All were red-faced and unsteady on their feet, suggesting they were still under the influence of Anne’s wine – and they had to be very drunk, thought Bartholomew, or they would have had the sense to stay in the castle after Marishal had rescued them. There was a furious growl from the townsfolk when they were recognised, to which Nuport responded by brandishing his sword.
‘Anyone who raises a hand in violence will lose it,’ announced Prior John loudly. ‘After which I shall excommunicate him.’
‘Who cares about the Church?’ spat Nuport. ‘We are not afraid of you, John. We are squires, trained in the art of war and–’
Weste moved so fast that Nuport had no idea he was in trouble until he was seized by the scruff of the neck, neatly flipped head over heels, and deposited in a muddy puddle. The unruly squire spent the next few moments spitting dirt from his mouth and trying to rub it from his eyes. There was a collective gasp of astonishment, after which a few townsfolk began to laugh. So did one or two courtiers, although not quite so openly.
Feeling castle honour was at stake, Mull lurched forward, but there was a blur of flying habit and multicoloured hose, and the lad found himself flat on his face with John’s boot planted on his rump to keep him there.
‘Would anyone else like to try?’ the Prior asked, looking around archly. ‘You can see we are just old men, and who cares about the Church?’
There was absolute stillness from both sides, as no one dared move lest they were singled out for attention. All except for one person.
‘They broke sanctuary,’ Paycock screeched, stabbing an accusing finger at the squires. ‘They dragged Quintone out from under the altar and chopped off his ears.’
‘Is this true, Nuport?’ asked John, very coldly.
‘He taunted us,’ said Mull in a small, defensive voice when Nuport declined to respond. ‘He stole Nuport’s hat and waved it at us, laughing that there was nothing we could do about it. Then Anne shouted that such insolence was an insult to the castle, so …’
‘You are all excommunicated,’ pronounced Prior John, jabbing a finger at each of the shocked squires in turn. ‘Unless you come to me tomorrow with contrite hearts and beg me to reconsider. I urge you to think very carefully about what you do next.’
‘Yes, do,’ jeered Paycock gleefully. ‘And we shall be there to witness your humiliation.’
‘You are excommunicated, too,’ snapped John, rounding on him. He raised a warning hand as a stunned Paycock opened his mouth to object. ‘Say no more! You will only make matters worse for yourself.’
The bailiff gazed at him in dismay, but wisely elected to hold his tongue. There was some agitated muttering among the assembled masses, but it stopped when John’s gimlet eye turned towards the culprits. Again, there was silence.
‘Now, we shall all go to church,’ said John, once he was sure that everyone was suitably cowed, ‘where we will make our peace with God and each other. Anyone who wants to fight can stay out here – excommunicated and excluded from our Lord’s grace. And bear in mind that He can read minds, so I recommend you abandon any thoughts of crafty vengeance once you are inside.’
‘I am not going in there,’ declared Paycock defiantly. His cronies inched away from him, lest it should be assumed that he spoke for them as well. ‘Not to hear the castle chaplain preach.’
‘You cannot go in,’ said Ereswell. ‘Not now you are excommunicated. You are not allowed.’
‘He may join us,’ countered John graciously. ‘But the castle chaplain will not perform the ceremony, and nor will the parish priest. I shall do it. Does anyone object?’
No one did.
Despite the church’s impressive size, it was still a crush to fit everyone inside, especially as no one wanted to use the south aisle. The Austins managed to persuade a few folk from the outlying villages to stand in it, but only because they did not understand the politics involved. Most of the congregation were crammed uncomfortably into the nave. There was a lot of jostling, which was not easy to prevent, and it was clear, despite John’s dire warnings of what would happen to those who broke the peace, that trouble was not far below the surface.
The tension ratcheted up even further when the Lady deigned to arrive, still brushing cake crumbs from her clothes after spending a pleasant afternoon with friends. There was no hint of apology for keeping everyone waiting, and when her knights began to shove people out of the way so she could stand at the front, the town’s resentment bubbled even more fiercely. It was a struggle for the Austins to keep the hotheads from both sides in line.
‘I should help the wounded,’ murmured Bartholomew, aware that there was a distressingly large number of them lying on the recently abandoned battlefield, and that Grym had last been seen driving a cart towards Kedyngton as fast as his horses could pull it.
‘No,’ hissed Michael, grabbing his arm. ‘It is too dangerous for you to wander off alone – I sense this business is far from over. For a start, Marishal is muttering to the Lady, doubtless telling her that a Michaelhouse man killed Roos. We must stay together.’
Bartholomew was unhappy about neglecting what he considered to be his moral duty, but he followed Michael to the vestry, where John was donning vestments, assisted by Langelee.
‘What took you so long?’ demanded the monk accusingly, closing the door so that their conversation would not be overheard by the milling crowd outside. ‘God only knows how many people died or were wounded in that fracas. We expected you a lot sooner.’
‘Because John has only just returned after spending the day looking for me and Weste,’ explained Langelee defensively. ‘Then more time was lost as we decided how best to stage an impressive entry.’
Michael gaped at him. ‘I hardly think–’
‘It was necessary, Brother,’ interrupted John curtly. ‘If we had just trotted up all muddy and ordinary, no one would have taken a blind bit of notice of us. Then the carnage would have been truly terrible.’
‘Have either of you seen Anne?’ asked Bartholomew, still far from certain that going ahead with the ceremony was the right thing to do. ‘Or Nicholas? They have questions to answer.’
‘I met Anne not long ago,’ replied John. ‘She was talking to Cambrug. He declared himself astonished to see her out of her cell, but his shock was not nearly as great as mine. I had rashly assumed that, as an anchorite, she was walled in permanently.’
‘Cambrug will have mentioned that we asked him about the tunnel,’ predicted Michael. ‘So she will know the game is up. She will be halfway to London by now.’
‘I shall go after her tomorrow,’ promised Langelee. ‘She will not escape, never fear. But you had better start this rite, John – your audience is growing restive.’
John brushed himself down, adjusted his stole, and opened the door. He nodded to four waiting friars, who lit enormous torches and began to sing at the tops of their voices. Heads promptly turned towards the little procession, and Bartholomew hoped the Austins would manage to produce enough of a spectacle to keep their congregation’s attention long enough for tempers to cool.
‘I cannot stop thinking about Roger,’ he told Michael worriedly. ‘He was Anne’s first victim – the man who should have overseen the safe completion of the ceiling. But there are cracks, and I had the feeling that Cambrug was concerned about them, although he was not about to admit that there might be flaws in his design, of course …’
Michael regarded him in alarm. ‘You think Anne killed Roger so that no one would know the thing is unstable? That she wants it to tumble down?’